A Night on the Town
by Irken Invader
Summary: crossover with Sandman Slim. Set during Dean's time in Hell. Alastair takes him to see something interesting.


I don't own Supernatural or Sandman Slim (sigh)

* * *

"Hello, Dean."

The former hunter ignored him and continued cleaning his knives, wiping the rag over the gleaming surface over and over again. He gave the impression he had been doing so for hours, and would continue to do so for hours still, or even until Hell crumbled around him, unless something spectacular managed to disturb the small comfort of the repetition. Or until another job came up.

"You can clean and clean and clean all you want, Dean, but I can still see the blood."

There was no visible acknowledgement besides a whitening of the knuckles around the handle of the blade. The speaker wasn't discouraged. He continued to stand behind the man, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet and humming twisted hymns. Eventually the low grumble of a voice that was not the demon's was heard.

"What do you _want_, Alastair?" The motion of wiping the blade wasn't broken.

"Want? There are a lot of things I want, Dean. And believe you me, I will eventually get them all." A wide grin was slowly revealed as his lips pulled back. "But at the moment in time that we both currently occupy? I'm _quite_ satisfied. Who knew you had it in you? You've been a very good boy, Dean. Or bad, as the case may be."

"Get to the point."

"Well, I merely mean to say that I'm so impressed with your work, that I've got a treat for you. Brownie points. A gold star. A penny for your troubles."

Dean finally turned around, pointing the tip of the gleaming knife at the demon's throat, wanting so badly to plunge it into the bastard's flesh. But both of them knew if he took even one more step, he would find himself facing that same knife, and much worse, from the business end of things. And they both knew he couldn't take that. Not again.

"Is it so hard to understand? No good deed goes unpunished, no act of vile butchery goes unrewarded, or so the saying goes." A hesitant look crossed Dean's face, his guard momentarily overwhelmed by surprise and a flickering hope.

"You're going to let me go?"

"Of course not," the demon said matter-of-factly. "Although I suppose it would have been quite funny to let you think that. Ah, well," he sighed, rubbing his hands together before flinging them wide. "We're going for a night on the town! I'm going to take you somewhere most humans only ever see from eye level, and let me tell you, they don't like it much. But not you, Dean! I'm offering the real deal, the complete spectator experience."

The hunter cautiously eyed the mirthful demon, before replying, "No thanks. I'm sure you can find some other demon to come to your bachelor party." He stumbled suddenly and screamed at the sensation of hooks carving through his skin, lungs filling with his own blood, and flames dancing inside him with the pulse of a heart that still hadn't realized it no longer needed to beat. Just as quickly as it came, it was gone, and Dean blinked away the spots in his eyes to see Alastair smiling down at him.

"It's not an option."

"So what _is_ this place?"

"_Honestly_, can't you figure it out on your own? There has to be more in that pretty little head than the strings to make those deadly fingers of yours dance. I should know. I carved it open often enough myself." Dean looked around.

"Looks like a crummy prehistoric stadium. Complete with torches and dirt floors." He kicked up some dust with his toe to demonstrate. "And here I was thinking Hell was supposed to be classy."

"You say prehistoric like it's a bad thing. And how would your shiny gym floors hold up to the sports we Hellions so love to force others to play? Why, where would all the blood go? As for the torches…eh," He shrugged. "Those I admit are mainly for dramatic effect. But this Dean, is the original Colosseum. Sadly, our ranks having to be supplemented with demons formed of fallen souls as they are, a great many of us cannot process very large words, much like you, so we mostly call it the Arena. But you're gonna have fun today. I promise."

And the worst thing about the day wasn't the hundreds of souls that bleed endlessly into the dirt, or the number so damaged that even the demons couldn't put them together again, who made the dread journey into Tartarus. It wasn't the horror and the terror waging war in his heart and throat, while demons screamed and cheered and ranted, stomped and roared their approval. It was that he caught himself roaring with them. Because he was having fun.

And then, the roar of the crowd…changed, somehow. It didn't grow quiet, or significantly louder. But it became more charged, more anticipatory. Dean glanced at the demon at his side, and was surprised to see those horrible eyes fixed on the doors that would release the next fighter. And the look on his face…it was grotesque fascination, horrified adoration. It was the look of someone who slows down to view a horrible car accident, or reaches out to pet a snarling wolf, magnified by the intensity that only demons could reach. And now that same expression was on the face of every demon in the stadium.

"What's going on?"

'The real reason we came," Alastair breathed, leaning forward in his seat. "Sandman Slim."

"Sandman Slim?" Dean snorted. "Sounds like a cheesy Japanese comic book hero. That, or a brand of cigarettes."

The air practically crackled with the emotion in the stadium as a man was lead out in chains and a collar by three demon attendants. All the other gladiators only had one attendant, Dean noted. Even from up in the stands, he could see the man had more scar tissue than skin, but hey, after what he'd just witnessed, that didn't necessarily give any hints as to his track record.

"So, what, does he win a lot? Is _tha_t what the big deal is? You got a lot of whatever cash it is you use here riding on this?"

"You couldn't _possibly_ comprehend how _special_ this man is," Alastair snapped. "He is a real _live_ human."

"So? All those people we just saw slaughtered weren't? And me? What am I, chopped liver?"

"Would you like to be? It's easily enough arranged. No, the difference between you and all those pathetic dirt feeders, and _him_, is simple. You're dead. The Sandman is the only thing harder to find in Hell than a righteous man: a living one."

"I don't understand. He's alive?"

"His heart beats. He needs food and drink and air. He grows older with every year that passes above. His soul is still intact inside that chest. And no matter how many times the beasts tear his still warm flesh, _he. Will. Not. Die!"_ The expression on Alastair's face was more frightening than Dean had ever seen it. And Dean had not broken easily. "I'd trade you in an _instant_," he whispered, teeth clenched. "You're a decent torturer, but if I had the Sandman, I wouldn't have to wait for everything I want. I'd rule this forsaken pit! But he's Azazel's toy…" Alastair trailed off as a beast resembling a giant alligator with a scorpion tail and bladed wings was released from the opposite door.

"Azazel? But I killed him! Me and Sam, we killed him!"

"Do you know nothing?" Alastair screamed at him. "Azazel is a General of Hell, Dean. A _General_! You didn't kill him; you killed a demon acting in his name. He has a hundred more, and you, or I, will never touch him. _This,_" he pointed at the battle just beginning. "_This_ is what I want you to see, Dean. _This_ is the standard I hold you to. _This_ is what you will never live up to, and _this _is what I will send you to if you ever displease me. This is your _fellow man_. This is your _shining beacon_ of the goodness in humankind. Do you see goodness in his eyes? Because I see the _future_ of Hell."

It was true. Sandman Slim, whatever his real name might have been, the only real human in Hell, was scarier than most things Dean had encountered in a _lifetime_ of killing monsters. But there was something else. He _did_ give Dean hope. Because the scariest thing in Hell was dead set on killing monsters. And he was _good_ at it. He had been here for years; years long enough to collect those scars. And he was _still_ alive. He wasn't broken. All these years, building his strength and his anger. He was a ticking time bomb, distracting from the danger he brought with flashing lights. It was too late for Dean; he was broken. But someone was still fighting Hell. He wanted revenge. And it was only a matter of time until he got what he wanted.


End file.
